MARY  STUART 

APlay 
BY  John  Drinkwater 

Author  of 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Kenneth  tiacKenna 


MARY  STUART 


MARY  STUART 

A  Play 


BY 


JOHN  DRINKWATER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

DRAMATIC    KIOHTS   IN  THB    UNITED   STATES 
CONTROLLED  BY  WILLIAM  HARRIS,  JR. 


CAUTION 

ALL  dramatic  rights  for  John  Drinkwater's  Mary  Stuart 
in  North  America  are  owned  and  controlled  by  William 
Harris,  Jr.,  Hudson  Theatre,  New  York  City.  Special  no- 
tice should  be  taken  that  possession  of  this  book  without  a 
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in  North  America  will  be  limited  to  those  companies  which 
appear  under  Mr.  Harris's  direction,  and  he  absolutely  for- 
bids other  performances  by  professionals  or  amateurs,  in- 
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by  copyright  and  any  violations  will  be  prosecuted. 

ACT  OF  MARCH  4,  1909:  SECTION  28 

"  That  any  person  who  wilfully  or  for  profit  shall  infringe  any 
copyright  secured  by  this  act,  or  who  shall  knowingly  and  wil- 
fully aid  or  abet  such  infringement  shall  be  deemed  guilty  of  a 
misdemeanor^  and  upon  conviction  thereof  shall  be  punished  by 
imprisonment  for  not  exceeding  one  year,  or  by  a  fine  of  not 
less  than  #100  nor  more  than  $1000,  or  both,  in  the  discretion 
of  the  Court" 


To 

NORA  AND  ST.  JOHN  ERVINE 


UV12QGO 


MARY  STUART 


THE  CHARACTERS  ARE 

ANDREW  BOYD 
JOHN  HUNTER 
MARY  STUART 
MARY  BEATON 
DAVID  RICCIO 
DARNLEY 

THOMAS  RANDOLPH 
BOTHWELL 


MARY  STUART 

A  small  library  in  ANDREW  BOYD'S  house  in 
Edinburgh.  In  the  jar  wall  is  a  fireplace, 
and  to  the  right  of  it  a  high  folding  window. 
Above  the  fireplace  is  a  large  oil  portrait  of 
MARY  STUART. 

It  is  late  on  a  summer  evening,  and  the  window  is 
open,  giving  on  to  a  garden  terrace,  under 
which  the  town  lies  in  the  moonlight. 

ANDREW  BOYD,  who  is  seventy  years  old,  sits  at  a 
small  table  with  a  young  man,  JOHN  HUN- 
TER. BOYD,  wearing  a  black  velvet  coat  and 
skull-cap,  looks  as  Charles  the  First  might  have 
done  had  he  achieved  a  fuller  age.  HUNTER  is 
in  evening  clothes.  The  date  is  1900  or  later. 

Hunter:  That's  all.  It's  terrible. 

Boyd:  What  do  you  propose  to  do? 

Hunter:  I  don't  know.  What  can  I  do? 

Boyd:  Did  you  merely  want  to  tell  me  —  or 
do  you  want  my  advice  ? 

Hunter:  Andrew,  the  few  grains  of  wisdom  I 
have  I  Ve  picked  up  from  you.  At  least,  I  think 
so.  Help  me  —  if  there  is  any  help. 


MARY  STUART 


Boyd:  I  don't  know  that  I  can  guide  your 
moods.  That's  difficult  always  between  men. 
I  can  only  try  to  tell  you  what  I  think.  Is  it 
worth  while  ? 

Hunter:  Well? 

Boyd:  You  and  Margaret  have  been  married 
five  years,  is  n't  it?  It's  not  long,  but  it's  a 
good  deal  in  young  lives. 

Hunter:  Five  years  —  yes. 

Boyd:  They  have  been  happy  years,  have  n't 
they? 

Hunter:  Perfectly,  until  this. 

Boyd:  And  now  —  by  the  way,  have  you 
ever  cared  for  any  other  woman? 

Hunter:  No. 

Boyd:  No.  And  now  there's  Finlay.  I've  al- 
ways liked  Finlay.  And  his  book  on  our  Queen 
is  the  wisest  word  about  her  that  I  know. 

Hunter:  My  God!  It's  funny,  is  n't  it?  Fin- 
lay  on  harlotry.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Andrew. 

Boyd:  That's  just  it,  my  boy.  Harlotry. 
The  word  buzzes  in  your  brain,  does  n't  it?  I 
wonder.  Do  you  want  to  understand  at  all  — 
or  do  you  just  mean  to  be  angry? 

Hunter:  It's  easy  enough  to  understand. 


MARY  STUART 


Boyd:  No;  never  easy.  It  needs  patience, 
and  love. 

Hunter:  I  understand,  bitterly,  because  I 
love. 

Boyd:  It  needs  patience,  and  love.  And 
there  must  be  no  confusion  of  pride. 

Hunter:  What  do  you  mean? 

Boyd:  There  are  women  whose  talent  it  is  to 
serve.  And  some  are  great  lovers. 

Hunter:  Margaret's  love  is  wonderful. 

Boyd:  Have  you  lost  it? 

Hunter:  What  does  that  mean  ?  I  tell  you  she 
loves  Finlay. 

Boyd:  How  do  you  know? 

Hunter:  She  told  me. 

Boyd:  It  was  not  a  secret  that  you  surprised? 

Hunter:  No. 

Boyd:  Have  you  liked  Finlay? 

Hunter:  I  suppose  so.  Yes  —  it's  the  uglier 
for  that. 

Boyd:  She  told  you  at  once? 

Hunter:  I  think  so.  Yes,  I  'm  sure  of  that. 

Boyd:  Did  she  say  anything  _of  her  love  for 
you? 

Hunter:  That  it  was  untouched  by  this. 


MARY  STUART 


Boyd:  Do  you  believe  it? 

Hunter:  I  don't  know.  How  can  it  be? 

Boyd:  And  some  are  great  lovers.  Do  you 
want  her  love? 

Hunter:  That's  absurd,  Andrew. 

Boyd:  What  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  the 
world  to  you  ?  in  your  emotions  ? 

Hunter:  That  is.  You  know. 

Boyd:  Or  your  sense  of  mastery  in  owning  her  ? 

Hunter:  You  can't  refine  things  like  that. 

Boyd:  But  you  must,  or  fall  into  the  mere 
foolishness  of  life.  You  must  answer  yourself. 
Do  you  want  to  enjoy  her  love,  or  do  you  want 
to  dominate  it? 

Hunter:  How  can  I  believe  that  what  she 
gives  to  Finlay  is  n't  taken  from  me? 
.  Boyd:  But  suppose  it  were  true.  Suppose 
you  had  surety  of  that  in  your  brain,  that  you 
could  be  certain  in  your  heart  that  her  love  for 
him  was  no  division,  but  a  new  thing  —  what 
then? 

Hunter:  I  can't  be  sure. 

Boyd:  You  don't  want  to  be  sure. 

Hunter:  You  are  an  old  man,  Andrew,  and 
my  best  friend. 


MARY  STUART 


Boyd:  Yes,  you  are  angry.  You  are  afraid. 
You  fear  for  your  pride.  And  there  is  but  one 
salvation.  Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear. 

Hunter:  How  could  she  ?  — •  how  could  she  ?  I 
was  so  happy  always  —  that  at  least  seemed 
safe. 

Boyd:  I  was  never  married,  but  I  have  under- 
stood women.  Or  I  think  so.  That's  an  old 
man's  compliment  to  himself.  Men  use  them 
ill. 

Hunter:  But  they  can  destroy  us.  Look  at 
this. 

Boyd:  Yes,  I  know.  They  can  be  wild  in  the 
wits,  too.  But  not  as  you  mean.  And  they 
have  the  better  excuse,  perhaps.  I  want  you  to 
see  this,  John.  It  is  you  that  are  in  peril  of  sin 
here,  not  she. 

Hunter:  But  I  have  done  nothing  but  love 
her. 

Boyd:  You  have  accused  her. 

Hunter:  She  accused  herself. 

Boyd:  Accused? 

Hunter:  Call  it  what  you  will. 

Boyd:  Let  us  call  it  the  right  thing. 

Hunter:  Well? 


8  MARY  STUART 

Boyd:  She  did  not  accuse  herself,  I  think. 
She  trusted  you,  splendidly. 

Hunter:  That's  oddly  put,  isn't  it?  The 
trusting,  surely,  was  mine. 

Boyd:  I  think  not,  not  at  least  as  you  see  it. 
What  was  it  you  trusted? 

Hunter:  Margaret's  devotion.* 

Boyd:  Her  love  of  you,  you  mean? 

Hunter:  Yes,  that. 

Boyd:  Has  she  betrayed  your  trust? 

Hunter:  What's  the  use  of  saying  it  over 
and  over  again  ? 

Boyd:  There's  folly  in  it,  my  boy,  and  I  want 
you  to  see  it.  I  want  you  to  see  exactly  where 
the  betrayal  is,  so  that  whatever  you  do  shall 
not  be  done  blindly.  You  trusted  Margaret's 
love.  It  is  a  wide  thing,  radiant,  the  capacity 
in  her  for  loving? 

Hunter:  It  made  me  a  king. 

Boyd:  Very  well.  She  gave  her  love  to  you, 
freely.  I've  seen  it,  and  I  know  its  richness. 
Suppose  it  had  been  a  poor,  mean  thing,  with 
no  roots,  subject  to  little,  dark  intrigues,  lightly 
given  and  lightly  taken  away.  Then  this  new 
interest,  or  any,  would  have  been  —  what  shall 


MARY  STUART 


we  say  —  a  peccadillo  —  something  to  hide, 
would  n't  it? 

Hunter:  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  I  sup- 
pose so. 

Boyd:  But  Margaret  is  not  made  for  these 
slight  occasions,  is  she?  You  know  that,  or  the 
better  man  in  you  knows  it.  It  is  the  insignifi- 
cant heart  that  is  furtive,  not  worth  loving. 
But  Margaret  hid  nothing. 

Hunter:  I  don't  understand  that  part  of  it. 
That  she  told  me  does  n't  help  the  pity  of  it  — 
but  why  did  she  tell  me? 

Boyd:  I  said.  Because  she  loves  you,  and  be- 
cause she  trusted  you  splendidly. 

Hunter:  Trusted  me  in  what? 

Boyd:  To  understand.  That  was  beautiful 
homage  to  your  love. 

Hunter:  What  do  you  want  me  to  believe? 

Boyd  (rising  and  moving  to  the  portrait  of 
Mary  Stuart) :  She,  too,  was  a  great  lover.  I  am 
an  old  man,  and  I  have  enjoyed  many  things. 
Life  has  been  full,  life  here  about  me,  and  the 
life  of  history  and  the  poets.  And  one  has  been 
as  real  as  another.  (He  moves  to  the  open  win- 
dow and  looks  out.)  There  in  Edinburgh  was 


io  MARY  STUART 

lived  the  saddest  of  all  histories,  the  tragedy  of 
all  such  women  who  are  unlucky  in  their  men 
—  Margaret's  tragedy,  perhaps. 

Hunter:  But  your  Queen  — 

Boyd:  No,  don't  be  impatient.  Mary  Stuart 
is  in  my  blood,  I  know,  but  I  am  thinking  of 
your  trouble  only,  John.  Have  you  ever  re- 
flected on  the  strangeness  of  that  Edinburgh 
story  —  the  confusion  of  it,  growing  and  grow- 
ing through  the  years?  History  never  so  en- 
tangled itself.  All  the  witnesses  lied,  and  nearly 
all  who  have  considered  it  have  been  absorbed 
in  confirming  this  word,  refuting  that.  And  at 
the  centre  of  it,  obscured  by  our  argument,  is 
the  one  glowing  reality,  a  passionate  woman. 
Beside  that,  the  rest  is  nothing,  but  we  forget. 

Hunter:  What  has  this  to  do  with  Margaret? 

Boyd:  It  is  Margaret.  These  women  —  such 
women  —  can  sometimes  love  so  well  that  no 
man's  nature  can  contain  all  that  they  have  to 
give.  There  are  men  like  that,  too.  And  it  is 
not  a  light  love.  The  light  lover  has  many,  and 
rapidly  shifting  aims,  but  never  two  loyalties 
at  once.  But  these  others  may  love  once,  or 
twice,  or  often,  but  changelessly.  They  do  not 


MARY  STUART  1 1 

love  unworthily  —  it  is  lamentable  when  they 
love  unworthy  men. 

Hunter:  Is  a  man  unworthy,  thinking  of  his 
honour? 

Boyd:  You  talk  amiss,  talking  so.  History 
seethes  with  the  error,  society  is  drenched  with  it. 
Mary  Stuart  cared  no  thing  for  your  honour — nor 
does  Margaret.  The  lovers  are  wiser  than  that. 

Hunter:  Then  I've  done  with  it. 

Boyd:  No,  surely.  What  is  this  honour  that 
you  extol? 

Hunter:  My  right,  my  dignity,  my  manhood. 

Boyd:  And  you  have  lived  with  the  philoso- 
phers and  the  poets.  Verily  a  little  wind  against 
the  reason  in  our  own  lives.  John,  boy,  your 
honour  is  pride,  a  poor  brute  jealousy,  cruelty. 
That  is  the  truth.  Will  you  learn  it? 

Hunter:  You  know  nothing. 

Boyd:  I  know  all. 

Hunter:  She  has  failed  me. 

Boyd:  Who  are  you  who  should  be  glad  of  this 
woman's  love,  that  you  should  presume  to  con- 
fine it,  to  dictate  its  motions?  Is  your  wife  a 
light  of  love? 

Hunter:  I  believed  not. 


1 2  MARY  STUART 

Boyd:  You  know  it.  Or  she  would  be  worth 
nothing  of  your  thought  or  your  regret.  Does 
she  love  Finlay  finely  —  as  you  would  be  loved. 

Hunter:  As  I  — 

Boyd:  As  you  would  be  loved? 

Hunter:  How  can  I  — 

Boyd:  No  —  answer  honestly.  You  know. 

Hunter:  Well  —  yes.  What  then  ? 

Boyd:  Then  if  she  love  finely,  she  will  take 
her  love  from  no  man  unless  he  is  unworthy. 
Are  you  that? 

Hunter:  I  Ve  done  all  I  could. 

Boyd:  In  your  heart,  before  this  anger  came, 
you  know  you've  been  sound,  fit  for  a  woman 
like  Margaret  to  love.  You  know  it? 

Hunter:  I  think  so.  Yes,  Andrew. 

Boyd:  Then  she  loves  two  men  — 

Hunter:  I  won't  have  it !  I  won't  share  — 

Boyd:  Boy  —  will  you  not  share  the  sun  of 
heaven,  the  beauty  of  the  world?  What  arro- 
gance is  this? 

Hunter:  I  tell  you  she  must  choose. 

Boyd:  Be  careful  —  or  the  choice  will  de- 
stroy you.  And  it  will  be  of  your  making,  not 
hers.  Remember  that. 


MARY  STUART  1 3 

Hunter:  I  gave  her  everything.  < 

Boyd:  It  was  a  great  gift.  And  Finlay's  is 
that  too,  I  think.  Or  was  yours  but  a  poor  ven- 
ture, the  tribute  of  a  little  soul?  Is  Margaret  to 
have  no  better  luck  than  that  poor  queen? 
Down  there  at  Holy  rood.  Look,  in  the  moon- 
light. A  woman  of  great  wit' — Margaret  is 
that  too.  And  nothing  better  coming  to  her 
than  a  scented  pimp,  a  callow  fool,  and  a  bully. 
They  should  have  been  three  great  princes, 
masters  of  men.  And  just  that. 

(A  dog  howls  across  the  garden  below) 

It's  the  moon.  But  her  love  was  magnificent. 
And  Margaret's  is.  A  new  unhappy  queen? 
I  wonder. 

Hunter  (rising  and  moving  to  BOYD):  Look 
here,  Andrew,  you  can't  alter  facts  by  filming 
them  over  with  dead  romances.  I  gave  Marga- 
ret everything,  and  she  wants  to  give  me  a  part 
at  best —  nothing,  may  be.  It 's  a  bad  bargain, 
and  I  won't  make  it.  Damn  that  dog! 
(As  it  howls  again) 

Why  should  I  allow  Finlay  to  meddle  with 
my  life? 


14  MARY  STUART 

Boyd:  Your  life  is  but  a  part  of  life.  It  began 
and  it  will  go  on  in  time  beydnd  yourself.  You 
and  Margaret  are  a  part  of  life,  not  of  some  lit- 
tle local  interest  of  your  own.  Mary  knew  it. 
Do  you  know  her  poem?  It's  here. 

(He  moves  to  the  picture  and  reads  from 
under  it) 

111  names  there  are,  as  Lethington, 

Moray,  Elizabeth, 
By  craft  of  these  I  am  undone, 

And  love  is  put  to  death. 

Though  brighter  wit  I  had  than  these, 
Their  cunning  brought  me  down, 

But  Mary's  love-story  shall  please 
Better  than  their  renown. 

Mary  the  lover  be  my  tale 

For  the  wise  men  to  tell 
When  Moray  joins  Elizabeth 

And  Lethington  in  hell. 

Not  Riccio  nor  Darnley  knew 

Nor  Bothwell  how  to  find 
This  Mary's  best  magnificence 

Of  the  great  lover's  mind. 


MARY  STUART  i  c 

2 i  J_ 

They  sing  it  sometimes  in  Edinburgh  still. 
How  would  you  like  Margaret  to  make  such  a 
song  of  you?  "This  Margaret's  magnificence 
of  the  great  lover's  mind."  There's  a  fellow 
who  sings  it  some  nights  down  there.  And  old 
Andrew  Boyd  hears  it  —  three  hundred  years 
and  more  afterwards  —  and  he  knows  the 
truths  of  it,  as  all  wise  men  would.  And  John 
Hunter  may  be  forgotten,  not  like  a  Mary 
Stuart,  but  the  thing  that  John  Hunter  means 
will  endure,  always,  and  wise  men  would  know 
the  truth  of  it  for  ever. 

Hunter:  Would  you  madden  me ?  Why? 

(A  voice  singing  is  heard  away  in  the  night, 
faintly) 

I  would  give  anything  to  know  that  Margaret 
loves  me — there.  But,  Finlay — what  is  there 
in  Finlay  that  she  can't  find  in  me? 

Boyd:  A  vast,  separate,  breathing  creation  of 
God.  Would  you  dare  to  forbid  a  woman's  love 
of  that?  You  are  ambitious. 

Hunter:  What  would  she  say,  do  you  think, 
if  I  loved  this  woman  and  that,  here  and  there  ? 

Boyd:  She  would  despise  you.   Because  you 


1 6  MARY  STUART 

think  of  it  lightly,  as  an  easy  and  deliberate 
thing.  You  don't  mean  love.  You  mean  a 
trivial,  feathery  visiting,  that  does  not  know 
what  love  is.  There  he  is  —  listen. 

(The  voice  below  becomes  articulate  as  the 
song  ends) 

Mary  the  lover  be  my  tale 

For  the  wise  men  to  tell 
When  Moray  joins  Elizabeth 

And  Lethington  in  hell. 

Not  Riccio  nor  Darnley  knew 

Nor  Bothwell  how  to  find 
This  Mary's  best  magnificence 

Of  the  great  lover's  mind. 

Hunter:  It's  a  damned  silly  song.  What's  it 
all  about?  A  dog  singing,  and  a  fool  joining  in, 
and  you  chattering  against  all  sense. 
(He  moves  back  to  the  table) 

Boyd:  You  are  emphatic — the  emphasis 
that  knows  it  is  misplaced.  (He  goes  again  to 
the  portrait)  Look  at  this  queen.  She  tells  you, 
does  n't  she?  Does  n't  she? 

Hunter:  What  does  a  dead  queen  know  about 


MARY  STUART  17 

me?  You  talk  nonsense.  The  moon  has  your 
wits;  you're  like  the  crazy  singer  out  there. 
Mary  Stuart  can  tell  me  nothing,  I  say.  My 
God!  What's  that? 

(A  dress  rustles  outside  on  the  terrace) 
Boyd:  What's  the  matter? 
(He  turns) 

Hunter:  There  —  look  • —  Who  is  it? 

(MARY  STUART  stands  on  the  terrace  at  the 
window.  She  is  the  Queen  of  the  portrait) 

Mary:  Boy,  I  can  tell  you  everything. 

(BoYD  and  HUNTER  and  the  portrait  and 
the  moonlit  terrace  pass  into  nothingness,  and 
we  see  MARY  STUART'S  room  in  Holyrood  on 
the  evening  of  March  the  ninth,  1566.  MARY 
is  lying  asleep  on  a  couch,  MARY  BEATON 
seated  beside  her,  reading.  After  a  jew  mo- 
ments the  queen  moves  uneasily,  and  in 
again  a  jew  moments  she  wakes. 

Mary:  Poor  boy  —  poor  boy.  If  he  would 
but  listen  —  but  how  strange.  What  a  thing 
was  that  to  dream!  Out  there — somewhere  in 


1 8  MARY  STUART 

the  moonlight  —  I  listened.  Dreams  should  be 
of  the  past,  surely.  That's  the  way  of  them, 
is  n't  it,  Beaton  ? 

Beaton:  Of  the  past  —  yes  —  or  timeless. 

Mary:  But  this  was  of  some  far  to-morrow. 
We  are  part  of  life  for  ever  —  we  become  what 
we  are  for  ever.  I  heard  the  old  man  say  it.  I 
heard  it  in  my  dream. 

Beaton:  What  was  it,  Madam? 

Mary:  How  long  have  I  slept? 

Beaton:  An  hour,  hardly. 

Mary:  I  passed  down  the  ages  in  an  hour.  It 
was  in  some  life  when  I  was  an  old  and  argued 
story.  Generations  and  generations  after  us. 
A  boy  and  his  lover,  and  Mary  Stuart  breath- 
ing again  in  a  new  sorrow  —  the  sorrow  that  is 
eternal. 

Beaton:  You  are  restless. 

Mary:  I  was  travelling  far. 

Beaton:  Dreams  are  full  of  trickery  for  my 
part. 

Mary:  And  sometimes  they  are  the  heart  of 
us.  How  will  it  be  told  of  me?  I  wonder.  Not 
a  man  for  ever,  perhaps,  to  know  the  truth  of 
it.  But  the  old  man  knew.  If  it  could  be  known 


MARY  STUART  19 

—  that  should  be  good  counsel  for  all  foolish 
lovers,  I  think.    I  know  love,  that  at  least. 
Beaton,  the  intrigues  of  Europe  will  destroy  me 

—  no,  they  will.  But  I  know  love.  If  it  could  be 
a  light  to  all  such  poor  boys !  Where  is  Riccio  ? 

Beaton:  Shall  I  find  him? 

Mary:  No,  I  asked  incuriously. 

Beaton:  He  grows  more  daring. 

Mary:  He  sings  well. 

Beaton:  Is  that  all,  Madam? 

Mary:  Unhappily,  with  him  too.  Riccio, 
Darnley,  Bothwell.  You  must  not  breathe  a 
word  of  Bothwell,  Beaton.  That  must  not  be 
known.  But  they  make  a  poor,  shabby  com- 
pany. Riccio  sings,  yes,  ravishingly.  And  no 
more.  Darnley  cannot  sing  even,  and  he's  my 
husband.  Just  a  petulance  —  one  cannot  even 
be  sorry  for  it.  How  he  hates  Riccio  —  I  wish 
David  were  better  worth  hating.  That  would 
be  something.  And  Bothwell  wants  to  take  me 
with  a  swagger.  It's  a  good  swagger,  but  that's 
the  end  of  it.  I  think  he  will  take  me  yet,  the 
odds  against  him  are  pitiful  enough.  But  it's 
a  barren  stock  of  lovers,  Beaton.  I,  who  could 
have  made  the  greatest  greater. 


2O  MARY  STUART 

Beaton:  He  may  come. 

Mary:  Craft  is  against  me,  my  friend.  I 
shall  have  no  leisure  to  find  the  great  one. 
Lethington  works,  and  my  brother  Moray 
works.  And  Elizabeth  waits.  Elizabeth  of  Eng- 
land—  they  will  do  as  she  wishes.  She  knows 
it,  and  I  know.  I  am  too  beautiful  for  her. 
She  has  poets  who  call  her  beautiful,  too.  If 
Mary  were  their  queen,  what  a  song  it  would 
be!  She  knows  it.  It's  a  little  secret  satisfac- 
tion, that. 

BEATON:  You  match  them  all,  Madam,  in 
wits. 

Mary:  I  shall  know  that  till  the  end.  But 
the  end  will  be  to  their  hand.  Fools  for  lovers, 
and  fools  to  destroy  me.  Proudly  I  shall  know 
that  always,  being  above  them  in  love  and 
wisdom.  But  love  will  cheat  me,  and  my  wis- 
dom will  spare  me  nothing.  That  is  how  it  is 
for  me.  Riccio  is  not  near? 

Beaton:  (opening  the  door) :  No,  Madam. 

Mary:  Then  listen.  This  is  made  for  myself, 
but  you  shall  hear  it. 


MARY  STUART  2  I 

(She  sings) 

111  names  there  are,  as  Lethington, 

Moray,  Elizabeth, 
By  craft  of  these  I  am  undone, 

And  love  is  put  to  death. 

Though  brighter  wit  I  had  than  these, 
Their  cunning  brought  me  down, 

But  Mary's  love-story  shall  please 
Better  than  their  renown. 

Mary  the  lover  be  my  tale 

For  the  wise  men  to  tell 
When  Moray  joins  Elizabeth 

And  Lethington  in  hell. 

Not  Riccio  nor  Darnley  knew 

Nor  Bothwell  how  to  find 
This  Mary's  best  magnificence 

Of  the  great  lover's  mind. 

Beaton:  It's  well  done. 

Mary:  Truly,  at  least. 

Beaton:  Your  hair? 

Mary:  Yes. 

Beaton  (arranging  it) :  If  I  were  a  queen  — 

Mary:  No,  Beaton,  you  would  n't,  I  Ve  told 


22  MARY  STUART 

you  that  often  enough.  The  nets  are  too  strong, 
too  well  cast.  If  the  Queen's  luck  is  bad,  it 
must  be  the  Queen's  luck  still.  We  do  not 
make  our  choice.  The  rewards  do  not  consider 
us.  No  —  the  blue  pin,  so.  Hugo  Dubois,  in 
an  elaborate  treatise  on  the  coiffure,  says, 
"Women  of  a  fair  complexion,  coming  at  night 
into  company,  do  much  affect  azure  or  lazuline 
gems  for  the  hair,  as  it  were  cornflowers  in 
sunny  corn ;  and  to  my  mind  it  does  well  become 
them."  There  —  that  will  do,  Beaton. 

(A  knock  at  the  door) 
Who  is  it? 

(BEATON  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.  It  is 

RICCIO) 

Riccio:  You  are  employed,  Madam? 
Mary:  No.  Come  in,  David.  Let  us  be  idle. 
Presently,  Beaton. 

(BEATON  goes) 

Riccio:  Idle?  Yes,  lady,  to  receive  homage  is 
a  business  light  enough. 

Mary:  To  receive  homage  lightly  given. 

Riccio:  Yet  all  queens  have  found  it  in  their 
profession,  they  say.  And  lightly  given?  Worth- 


MARY  STUART  23 

less,  if  you  will,  but  not  that.  Not  of  Riccio, 
Madam. 

Mary:  You  correct  me. 

Riccio:  I  know  you  as  you  do  not  yourself. 

Mary:  This  Holyrood  is  a  grey  place.  A 
little  phrase  will  tell. 

Riccio:  It  is  the  chosen  palace  of  the  world. 

Mary:  Yes,  your  gallantry  has  an  echo, 
David,  a  dear  one. 

Riccio:  Let  it  be  that.  I  will  serve  even  so. 

Mary:  France  —  it  is  a  word  that  I  think 
will  become  surfeiting  in  time,  it  is  so  beautiful. 
France.  Too  sweet,  men  will  say,  lilies  too  often 
sung,  and  stale.  But  how  precious  it  is !  They 
can  love  there. 

Riccio:  We  are  of  the  south. 

Mary:  Yes,  you  have  a  good  suit  there. 

Riccio:  If  you  would  but  listen. 

Mary:  I  listen,  daily. 

Riccio:  I  do  not  persuade  well. 

Mary:  You  spare  nothing. 

Riccio:  I  am  suspect  in  the  palace,  more  and 
more.  Your  lord  the  King,  chiefly. 

Mary:  Do  you  stay  in  Scotland  for  popular- 
ity? They  do  not  choose  your  kind,  David. 


24  MARY  STUART 

Riccio:  Every  mile  of  it  is  abominable.  But 
I  stay,  eagerly. 

Mary:  Why? 

Riccio:  It  is  adorable  of  you  to  answer  so 
yourself. 

Mary:  Your  wit  survives. 

Riccio:  But  you  shall  not  steal  my  pleasure. 
You  ask,  to  hear  me  say  it.  Yes  —  I  beg  —  it 
is  so.  I  stay  because  the  compass  moves  with 
you.  The  south  has  all  the  enchantments  of 
the  heart ;  there  are  the  spices  and  the  music.  I 
can  breathe  only  there;  life  is  valuable  only  in 
that  zone  of  supreme  devotions.  And  where 
you  are,  is  the  south.  That  is  why  I  stay.  It's 
the  answer  you  foresaw? 

Mary:  Riccio,  with  so  many  advantages. 
And  yet  —  man,  could  I  but  speak  for  you ! 

Riccio:  I  need  no  ambassadors,  Madam. 

Mary:  But  you  do,  Riccio.  I  could  prompt 
you  —  but,  no. 

Riccio:  My  phrases  lack  —  ah,  they  grow 
rusty  in  these  damp  airs. 

Mary:  The  phrases  are  well  enough.  They 
would  pass  in  the  most  elegant  of  courts,  David. 
Or  you  should  take  them  to  my  sister,  Eliza- 


MARY  STUART  25 

beth.  She  collects  them  —  half  the  poets  of 
England  send  her  mottoes  in  this  kind.  They 
know  better,  but  it  humours  her.  I  myself  can 
match  them  —  excel  them,  Pierre  Ronsard  tells 
me.  But  what  have  these  to  do  with  me?  I 
have  a  husband. 

Riccio:  A  husband? 

Mary:  And  he  is  nothing.  I  should,  being 
Mary  Stuart,  forget  him,  but  he  hangs  about 
the  place.  And  I  say  that  to  you,  David,  to 
you,  licensed  with  the  graces  of  my  lovely 
France,  and  with  some,  favours  in  your  re- 
membrance, eh?  And  what  do  you  answer? 

Riccio:  Answer? 

Mary:  God,  man,  yes,  answer. 

Riccio:  If  my  lord  the  King  fails,  may  not 
j 

Mary:  Console  my  —  exile? 

Riccio:  It  is  allowed. 

Mary:  A  justifiable  intrigue?  Commenda- 
ble, even? 

Riccio:  You  know  it,  Madam. 

Mary:  And  what  is  your  device  for  the  occa- 
sion, David? 

Riccio:  To  tell  you  this  —  always  and  al- 


26  MARY  STUART 

ways  —  you  are  the  queen  of  all  beauty,  the 
adorable  fragrance  of  — 

Mary:  No  better  than  that?  You  lamentable 
steward. 

Riccio  (taking  her  hand) :  I  love  you,  Mary. 

Mary  (moving from  him) :  And  you  can  say  that, 
and  make  it  no  better  than  an  impertinence. 

Riccio:  I  love  you  —  I  will  take  you  —  so. 

Mary:  You  have  not  the  stature,  my  poor 
David.  Listen.  I  meant  no  anger.  Sing  to  me, 
often.  Your  songs  come  out  of  a  cherished  life. 
Flatter  me  sometimes  if  you  will  —  I  am  queen 
enough  to  thank  my  courtiers  —  and  they  do 
not  much  breed  them  here  in  Scotland.  And 
your  manners  adorn  ceremony  always  —  I  do 
not  undervalue  that  —  the  example  is  needed. 
I  must  not  lose  you,  David ;  I  take  pleasure  in 
your  company,  in  your  amiability  —  it  is  not 
common.  And  be  content  —  you  will  find  in 
this  all  necessary  satisfaction  —  I  shall  not 
starve  your  nature.  But  it  will  be  well  for  us 
not  to  speak  again  of  love. 

Riccio:  To  be  forbidden  that  — 

Mary:  It  will  be  an  agreeable  distress,  never 
fear.  And  perhaps  in  some  fortunate,  some  — 


MARY  STUART  27 

unaccustomed  moment  of  understanding,  you 
may  make  a  song  of  me.  If  it  should  be  so,  re- 
member this  —  you  will  make  little  enough  of 
it  now,  but,  then,  remember  it,  if  you  would 
make  the  song  well.  Mary  Stuart  was  a  queen 
of  love,  but  she  had  no  subjects.  She  was  love's 
servant,  but  she  found  no  lord.  That  is  all. 

Riccio:  No  subjects  ?  It  is  cruel  to  say  that  — 
you  know. 

Mary:  No  subjects.  Only  strangers  at  the 
table. 

Riccio:  I  do  not  understand  you,  Mary. 

Mary:  You  have  said  it. 

Riccio:  I  give  you  myself — all  my  poet's 
heart.  Is  it  not  enough? 

Mary:  You  are  neither  subject  nor  lord. 
There  is  no  peace  in  you,  David.  Just  a  buzzing 
in  the  jar. 

Riccio:  There  are  men  whose  pride  you  should 
learn  for  less  than  this. 

Mary:  Ah,  then. 

Riccio:  But  my  devotion  will  stay. 

Mary:  It  will  satisfy  you.  It  is  all  that  mat- 
ters. And  I  am  grateful.  You  are  a  good  secre- 
tary, David. 


28  MARY  STUART 

Riccio:  What  is  the  love  you  look  for? 

Mary:  Rest  from  tumult.  Escape.  You 
could  not  know. 

Riccio:  No.  But  I  pity  you. 

Mary:  I  should  reprove  you  for  that.  But 
it's  a  good  venture,  the  best  you  could  make. 
It  might  trouble  you.  But  it  will  pass.  You 
will  think  of  yourself  only  to  console;  that  will 
be  your  safety. 

Riccio:  You  will  not  let  them  dismiss  me?  I 
am  happy  here. 

Mary:  It  is  right  that  you  should  be  happy. 
You  shall  stay,  never  fear. 

Riccio:  To  serve  you  always.  I  can  give 
light  and  air  a  little,  that  at  least.  I  should 
have  been  king  in  this  place. 

Mary  (giving  him  her  hand  to  kiss) :  Now  you 
may  sing  to  me. 

Riccio  (singing) : 

The  snows  come,  and  frosty  pools 

Forbid  the  birds  to  sing. 
The  pilgrim  of  the  wilderness 

Complains  the  tardy  spring. 


MARY  STUART  29 

One  sits  at  home  in  winter  ease, 

And  one  goes  out  to  find 
In  thought  of  one,  the  third  who  waits, 

But  bitterness  of  mind. 

(As  he  sings^  DARNLEY  comes  in  unseen. 
He  sits,  at  the  jar  side  of  the  room,  listening) 

Who  plays  with  love,  beats  up  and  down 

The  snow  beyond  the  gate. 
Who  plays  with  love  is  like  to  tell 

A  spring  for  ever  late. 

But  this  I  say,  if  Holyrood 

Had  crowned  a  proper  king, 
These  grey  walls  had  the  blossoms  worn 

Of  an  eternal  spring. 

Darnley  (not  moving  —  after  a  silence) :  King 
David,  for  example? 

Riccio  (rising} :  Sire  —  we  did  not  know  — 
it  was  just  a  rhyme. 

Darnley  (rising) :  We  did  not  know  —  we  did 
not  know  — 

Riccio:  Not  that — I  mean — you  startled  me. 

Darnley:  David  Riccio — you  think  I  'm  a  fool. 

Riccio:  Sire  — 


3o  MARY  STUART 

Darnley:  Well  —  I'm  not.  It's  a  mistake  to 
think  it.  I  could  make  rhymes  like  that  by  the 
bushel  if  they  were  worth  it.  It's  a  very  ugly 
song,  that. 

Mary:  It  was  nothing,  my  lord.  A  tune  for 
idleness. 

Darnley:  I  am  instructed. 

Riccio:  Shall  I  make  such  a  one  for  the  King? 

Darnley:  As  this  was  for  the  Queen  ? 

Riccio:  If  I  have  not  offended.  Would  it  be 
Your  Grace's  pleasure. 

Darnley:  There  may  not  be  time. 

Riccio:  Time? 

Darnley:  Yes,  you  know,  by  the  clock.  It 
passes.  Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick  —  and  you  never 
know.  A  rhyme,  for  instance.  You  get  one 
line,  and  then  two,  and  another,  and  the  end 
may  come,  suddenly.  In  kings'  palaces,  that 
is.  Who  knows  ? 

Riccio  (afraid):  We  minstrels  delight  in 
parables.  You  speak  in  a  fine  figure,  my  lord. 
But  —  you  do  not  mean  that  my  poor  song  has 
angered  you? 

Darnley:  A  thought  only  for  your  next.  A 
suggestion.  The  poet,  and  time,  passing,  tick, 


MARY  STUART  3  i 

tick,  tick,  and  the  rhyme  on  the  lips,  and  then 
—  as  you  will.  I  give  it  you  —  it  may  help  in- 
vention. 

Riccio:  And  —  it  means  nothing  more? 

Mary:  Come,  David,  how  should  it?  (Di- 
rectly to  him.}  Poets  are  men,  I  hope. 

Riccio:  Surely,  Madam.  I  will  work  upon  it, 
Sire.  A  sonnet,  perhaps  —  no,  a  ballade  — 
and  yet,  for  the  lute  — 

Darnley:  Consider  it.  (Going  to  the  door.) 
There  is  a  moon.  It  helps,  I  am  told. 

(He  signs  for  RICCIO  to  go) 

Riccio:  Your  Grace,  I  am  sure,  would  not 
misjudge  me. 
Darnley.  No. 

(Riccio  goes) 

Mary:  What  is  it? 

Darnley:  Shamelessly  —  so. 

Mary:  What  do  you  mean? 

Darnley:  Always  at  your  ear. 

Mary:  Well? 

Darnley:  What  has  he  been  saying  to  you? 

Mary:  It  would  be  tedious. 

Darnley:  What  is  he,  this  fellow?  Your  lover? 


32  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  What  then? 

Darnley:  Am  I  King  of  Scotland? 

Mary:  Have  you  —  forgotten? 

Darnley:  Is  he  your  lover? 

Mary:  If  he  were  ? 

Darnley:  Am  I  to  be  common  gossip  in  Edin- 
burgh ? 

Mary:  Is  that  all?  No;  he  is  not  my  lover. 

Darnley:  They  talk.  The  Queen,  they  say, 
has  a  sweet  instructor. 

Mary:  I  have  need  of  such. 

Darnley:  What  is  the  instruction? 

Mary:  Ask  your  gossips.  The  word  is  not 
mine. 

Darnley:  Will  you  dismiss  this  man  ? 

Mary:  But  why  should  I  ?  He  is  a  competent 
secretary.  He  sings  prettily.  He  has  a  grace. 
Why  should  I  lose  him? 

Darnley:  Because  I  ask  it. 

Mary:  But  I  do  not  remember  you. 

Darnley:  What  wit  is  that? 

Mary:  You  speak  as  one  privileged  to  control 
my  affections.  I  do  not  remember  such  a  one. 

Darnley:  This  man  governs  you. 

Mary:  Alas,  no. 


MARY  STUART  33 

Darnley:  He  guides  your  policy.  The  courts 
of  Europe  begin  to  talk  of  it. 

Mary:  Poor  David.  He  just  sits  at  the  table, 
and  writes  as  I  tell  him.  There's  more  policy 
in  a  carter. 

Darnley:  And  he  is  not  your  lover? 

Mary:  No. 

Darnley:  Then  he  would  be  little  to  lose. 

Mary:  And  yet  why  should  I  lose  even  so 
little? 

Darnley:  I  do  not  believe  you. 

Mary:  So?  And  then? 

Darnley:  You  choose  strangely. 

Mary:  I  chose  you,  God  help  me. 

Darnley:  That's  ugly. 

Mary:  What  would  you  have? 

Darnley:  What  is  it  to  be  ? 

Mary:  How? 

Darnley:  I  have  some  rights  still,  at  least. 

Mary:  You  are  called  King. 

Darnley:  Then  my  word  should  mean  some- 
thing. 

Mary:  For  what  ? 

Darnley:  Dismiss  Riccio. 

Mary:  No. 


34  MARY  STUART 

Darnley:  Be  careful.  We  are  not  in  France. 

Mary:  You  destroy  yourself  very  thoroughly, 
Darnley. 

Darnley:  Dismiss  him  —  or  I'll  have  it  sung 
in  every  tavern  in  Edinburgh.  Or  worse. 

Mary:  Do  you  love  me? 

Darnley:  What' —  how  do  you  mean? 

Mary:  That's  plain  enough,  man,  is  n't  it? 

Darnley:  I  have  my  pride. 

Mary:  And  what  of  mine  ?  I  'm  hungry  —  do 
you  understand?  All  this  —  my  body,  and  my 
imagination.  Hungry  for  peace  —  for  the  man 
who  can  establish  my  heart.  What  do  they 
say  —  a  light  lover,  unsure  always.  And  who 
is  there  to  make  me  sure?  What  man  is  there 
with  authority?  Where  is  he  who  shall  measure 
me?  Listen,  my  husband.  There  are  tides  in 
me  as  fierce  as  any  that  have  troubled  women. 
And  they  are  restless,  always,  always.  Do  you 
think  I  desire  that?  Do  you  think  that  I  have 
no  other  longings  —  to  govern  with  a  clear 
brain,  to  learn  my  people,  to  prove  myself 
against  these  foreign  jealousies,  to  see  strong 
children  about  me,  to  play  with  an  easy  festival 
mind,  to  walk  the  evenings  at  peace?  Do  you 


MARY  STUART  35 

think  I  choose  this  hungry  grief  of  passion  — 
deal  in  it  like  a  little  poet?  All  should  be 
resolved  and  clear  in  me,  with  a  king  to  match 
my  kingdom.  My  love  is  crazed,  a  turbulence, 
without  direction.  It  was  made  to  move  in 
long,  deep  assurance,  moulding  me  beyond  my 
knowledge.  I,  who  should  be  love,  may  but 
burn  and  burn  with  the  love  that  I  am  not. 
Where  is  my  prophet?  Everywhere  blind  eyes. 
I  took  you,  I  wedded  you,  I  made  you  King. 
And  you  mince,  and  gossip,  and  listen  at  the 
door.  I  could  have  taught  you  the  finest  hus- 
bandry that  Scotland  has  ever  known.  And 
your  soul's  policy  brings  you  to  this.  Your 
craft  —  the  craft  of  Scotland's  excellence  — 
against  the  poor  half-wit  of  David  Riccio.  And 
you  have  your  pride! 

Darnley:  That,  at  least.  For  me  the  rest  is 
past. 

Mary:  It  has  never  been. 

Darnley:  No  matter  —  my  pride  is  my  pride, 
I  tell  you.  Riccio  goes,  one  way  or  another. 
'I  know  my  own  will  —  you  can't  preach  me  out 
of  that.  (At  the  window.)  Look  at  them,  virtu- 
ous men  and  bad  men,  priests  and  wenches, 


36  MARY  STUART 

liars  and  gospel,  game  and  the  hunters  —  but 
all  of  them  with  a  streak  of  beastliness  in  them 
for  the  relish  of  a  bawdy  tale.  And  they  shall 
have  it.  A  wallet  full  of  jingles  can  be  bought 
for  a  few  pence,  or  I  have  a  turn  myself: 

Who's  in  the  Queen's  chamber? 

Master  Italian  Thrift. ' 
What's  the  Queen  wearing? 

Her  long  hair  and  her  shift. 

Mary:  And  where 's  the  King  of  Scotland 

To  strike  us  as  we  sing? 
And  where 's  the  King  of  Scotland  ? 
There  is  no  King. 

Darnley:  I  won't  have  it  —  do  you  hear  me? 

Mary:  I  do. 

Darnley:  Again,  will  you  dismiss  Riccio? 

Mary:  Must  I  again?  No. 

Darnley:  Then  it  is  your  reckoning.  We'll 
spare  you  the  bawdy  songs,  perhaps. 

Mary:  I  should. 

Darnley:  But  watch  your  David  —  watch 
him,  I  say.  Keep  him  close.  That's  generous  of 
me  —  to  warn  you.  Perhaps  now  —  this  min- 


MARY  STUART  37 

ute,  or  to-morrow,  or  to-night.  Suspect  every 
footstep.  But  I  tread  lightly.  A  poor  king,  but 
a  light  step  •  —  thus  —  do  you  see  ?  (He  creeps 
to  his  words  towards  the  door.}  Thus  —  thus  •  —  • 
thus  —  there's  a  Queen  in  there,  and  her  lover 
—  a  dirty  lover  •  —  thus  we  go,  and  thus  •  —  be 
very  watchful,  Madam,  very  —  do  you  hear 
them?  —  the  Queen  and  her  dirty  lover'  —  that 
tongue  should  be  stilled  •  —  it  is  n't  decent,  is  it  ? 
Then  thus,  and  thus,  —  a  light,  light  tread,  eh? 
•  —  'and  thus  —  ' 


(He  goes  out) 

(MARY,  watching  him  go,  laughs,  but  then, 
with  misgiving,  she  rings  a  bell,  and  MARY 
BEATON  comes) 

Beaton:  Yes,  Madam? 

Mary:  Did  you  see  anything  —  out  there? 

Beaton:  I  saw  the  King  pass  down  the  stairs. 

Mary:  Did  he  speak? 

Beaton:  I  don't  think  he  saw  me.  He  walked 
oddly  —  on  tiptoe,  as  though  something  were  at 
the  corner.  And  as  he  went  out  of  sight  he  half 
turned,  and  put  his  finger  to  his  lip,  and  said, 
"Ssh!"  very  quietly,  like  that. 


38  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  He's  a  poor  thing,  very  inconsider- 
able. But  it  may  happen. 

Beaton:  What,  Madam? 

Mary:  He  threatens  Riccio. 

Beaton:  Cannot  you  satisfy  him? 

Mary:  No.  But  I  have  no  wish  to. 

Beaton:  We  must  warn  Riccio. 

Mary:  It  would  be  useless.  No,  David  must 
take  his  chance.  He  knows  that  there 's  danger. 
It's  wrong,  though,  that  so  slight  a  man  as 
Darnley  should  be  able  to  hurt  me  even  so 
much.  Riccio 's  no  matter,  really.  But  if  my 
lord  touches  him  he  shall  pay  as  though  Riccio 
were  all.  Where  is  Riccio? 

Beaton:  He  was  in  the  yard  there,  looking  out 
over  the  town,  scraping  moss  from  the  wall 
with  his  finger.  He  seemed  nervous,  I  thought. 

Mary:  That  would  be  monstrous  —  to  have 
such  a  man  made  into  a  great  stake.  But  it 
may  be. 

(DARNLEY  is  heard  singing  below  the  window) 

Who's  in  the  Queen's  chamber? 

Master  Italian  Thrift. 
What's  the  Queen  wearing? 

Her  long  hair  and  her  shift. 


MARY  STUART  39 

Mary:  That's  the  King  of  Scotland. 

Beaton:  Why  not  send  Riccio  away?  Why 
let  him  be,  as  you  say,  a  great  stake? 

Mary:  Because  there  is  no  other.  Because 
my  mind  is  lost,  Beaton.  Darnley,  Riccio, 
Bothwell  —  there's  a  theme  for  a  great  heart  to 
play.  And  there 's  so  much  to  do.  I  have  talent 
—  as  rare  as  any  in  Europe.  It  should  be  my 
broad  road  • —  that  and  my  love.  And  I  cannot 
use  it,  for  my  love  is  beaten  up  like  dust,  blind- 
ing me.  Wanton,  it  is  said.  No  woman,  I  think, 
was  ever  so  little  wanton.  To  be  troubled  al- 
ways in  desires  —  that 's  to  be  cursed,  not 
wanton.  Little  frustrations,  and  it  should  be 
the  wide  and  ample  movement  of  life.  I  want 
to  forget  it  all — wholly  to  become  it.  And 
there  are  Darnley,  Riccio,  Bothwell.  And  my 
power  lies  unused,  it  rusts.  If  I  could  find 
peace,  if  there  were  but  a  man  to  match  me, 
my  power  should  work.  Elizabeth  should  see 
an  example  in  Scotland.  I  would  defend  queen- 
ship,  and  I  am  brought  to  defend  a  poor  Italian 
clerk. 

Beaton:  Why  consider  him,  or  any  one  of 
them? 


40  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  It's  a  madness,  is  n't  it?  But  that's 
the  way.  Love  is  that.  We  must  become  love, 
or  it  spends  us.  I  am  not  Mary  Stuart  —  she 
is  a  dream  unspelt.  I  am  nothing.  There  should 
have  been  a  queen,  and  I  am  nothing. 

(Riccio  comes  in,  scared) 

Riccio:  Madam,  forgive  me,  I  don't  know 
what  he  means  —  my  lord  the  King.  He 
came  up  to  me,  and  peered  into  my  face, 
strangely,  and  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and 
said,  "Thieves  have  irons,  and  the  crow 
comes,  and  the  south 's  as  cold  as  the  east."  He 
means  me  harm. 

Mary:  Come,  David,  men  should  have  sud- 
den minds.  Calamity  is  with  fortune.  Courage, 
friend. 

Riccio:  He  came  to  me  from  below.  He 's  wan- 
dering about  like  a  silly  ghost.  He  went  back. 

(He  moves  to  the  window.    Before  he  gets 
there,  DARNLEY  is  heard  again) 

Who's  in  the  Queen's  chamber? 

Master  Italian  Thrift. 
What's  the  Queen  wearing? 

Her  long  hair  and  her  shift. 


MARY  STUART  41 

Riccio:  What's  that?  Why  does  he  sing  that, 
under  the  window  ? 

Mary:  It's  a  brave  house  for  a  queen,  Beaton, 
is  n't  it? 

Darnley  (from  below) :  There's  more  yet. 

(He  sings  again) 

Is  there  a  scullion  greedy 

For  a  crown  and  a  queen's  kiss  .  .  . 

(MARY  takes  a  pitcher  of  wine  and,  moving 
to  the  window,  empties  it  at  a  venture) 

Darnley:  Curse  you  —  you  harlot  —  you 
shall  see  — . 

(His  voice  fades  away;  MARY  stands,  hold- 
ing the  pitcher) 

Mary:  The  daughter  of  France.  Pupil  of 
Ronsard.  Queen  of  Scotland. 

(DARNLEY  rushes  in,  his  face  and  clothes 
dripping  with  wine) 

Darnley:  Do  you  think  I  will  be  used  so  — 
not  by  any  queen  in  Christendom. 
Mary:  Do  we  talk  of  using? 

(She  replaces  the  pitcher) 


42  MARY  STUART 

Darnley:  Do  you  call  me  stock?  A  thing  for 
japes  —  to  be  mocked  at  by  a  harlot  and  her 
creeping  filth  ? 

Mary:  So,  we  sing  our  bawdry  at  the  Queen's 
window?  Where  is  the  King  to  whip  such  fel- 
lows ? 

Darnley:  We  know  the  window  from  another. 

Mary:  Where  is  the  King,  I  say? 

Darnley:  Looking  to  his  own.  David  Riccio, 
I  spoke  too  gently  in  the  yard  now.  Thieves 
are  honest  men  —  but  there  are  rascals,  Italian 
spawn,  creeping  things  —  and  heels. 

•Beaton:  My  lord,  this  is  the  Queen's  chamber. 

Darnley:  Aye,  the  Queen's  chamber — that's 
it.  There  are  heels,  I  say — and  until  then,  so — 

(He  spits  in  RICCIO'S  face,  and  rushes  out) 

Riccio  (moving  across  to  MARY,  and  kneeling 
to  her):  He's  mad,  he  should  be  held.  What 
shall  I  do,  Madam? 

Mary:  What  shall  the  Queen  do? 

Riccio:  I  am  afraid. 

Mary:  Afraid  of  what? 

Riccio:  They  hate  me  here.  He  has  fellows. 
It  will  not  be  safe  for  me  anywhere  in  Holyrood. 


MARY  STUART  43 

Let  me  go  back  to  France  —  Your  Majesty 
can  contrive  it.  I  must  go. 
Mary:  Go. 

(Riccio  rises  and  hesitates) 

Go.  Stay  in  your  room.  You  shall  not  be  for- 
gotten. Go,  I  say. 

(Riccio  goes,  lamentably) 

Beaton:  Madam,  Madam. 

Mary:  The  measuring  is  bad,  bad.  There 
are  matters  that  the  mind  must  leave.  Could 
you  find  my  lord  Bothwell,  do  you  think? 

Beaton:  I  will  try. 

Mary:  If  you  will.  Or  stay,  send  to  Randolph 
first.  Ask  him  to  come  here.  When  he  goes, 
find  Bothwell  if  you  can. 

(BEATON  goes.  MARY  unlocks  a  cabinet, 
and  takes  out  a  picture  of  Elizabeth,  in  a 
jewelled  frame,  and  a  paper.  The  picture 
she  places  conspicuously  on  the  top  of  the 
cabinet,  the  paper  on  the  table.  Then  from 
the  cabinet  she  takes  a  small  green  cloth  case, 
which  also  she  places  on  the  table.  She  locks 
the  cabinet,  and  stands  on  the  far  side  from 
the  door.  BEATON  returns) 


44  MARY  STUART 

Beaton:  Sir  Thomas  Randolph  is  here, 
Madam. 

Mary:  We  will  receive  him. 

(BEATON  moves  to  the  door,  and  SIR  THOMAS 
RANDOLPH,  Elizabeth's  Ambassador  at 
Holyrood,  comes  in.  BEATON  goes.  RAN- 
DOLPH kneels  to  MARY,  who  gives  him  her 
hand.  He  rises.  MARY  points  him  to  a 
chair.  They  both  sit) 

Mary:  Have  you  more  news  of  our  cousin? 

Randolph:  Her  Majesty's  physician  reports 
complete  recovery. 

Mary:  You  comfort  me.  Even  so  slight  an 
indisposition  is  watched  by  the  world  with 
anxiety. 

Randolph:  I  sent  special  word  to  my  mistress 
of  Your  Majesty's  concern. 

Mary:  I  count  you  always  among  my  true 
friends.  That  is  to  be  in  a  small  band,  Sir 
Thomas. 

Randolph:  I  am  very  sensible  of  the  honour, 
Madam. 

Mary:  My  cousin  and  I  should  meet.  Such 
affection  should  not  suffer  so  long  a  delay. 


MARY  STUART  45 

Randolph:  Her  Majesty,  I  know,  is  of  a  like 
mind. 

Mary:  If  I  could  but  leave  this  turbulent 
court  for  a  time.  But,  alas,  I  may  not.  Can 
we  not  persuade  the  Queen  to  grace  our  rough 
life,  think  you?  She  is  well  served.  With  such 
counsellors  she  could  leave  with  an  easy  heart. 
The  throne  of  England  knows  no  insecurities. 

Randolph:  Her  Majesty  talks  of  it  often. 

Mary:  Do  you  think  she  will  so  favour  us? 

Randolph:  I  am  sure  of  her  inclinations. 

Mary:  And  yet,  perhaps,  not  quite  sure. 

Randolph:  Madam? 

Mary:  Randolph,  I  am  a  woman  beset  by 
fools  and  rascals.  Do  with  that  as  you  will.  If 
I  could  meet  my  cousin  of  England,  word  to 
word,  she  might  learn  much. 

Randolph:  She  desires  that. 

Mary:  I  wonder.  To  learn  might  mean  ad- 
missions. And  admissions  are  dangerous,  are 
they  not,  even  royal  admissions? 

Randolph:  Your  Majesty  speaks  by  figures. 

Mary:  No;  plainly.  You  have  your  poets. 
They  should  tell  you  what  a  figure  is.  But  I 
speak  plainly. 


46  MARY  STUART 

Randolph:  And  yet,  Madam,  not  plainly  for 
so  plain  a  man. 

Mary:  Ambassador  from  the  court  of  England  ? 
No,  Randolph.  Elizabeth  sends  no  poor  brains 
on  her  business.  Though  I  have  heard  that  her 
wages  do  not  always  measure  the  service. 

Randolph:  Madam  — • 

Mary:  There,  there  —  it's  no  treason  to  hear. 
And  I  am  not  a  subject  of  England  —  yet. 

Randolph:  A  subject? 

Mary:  One  might  be  a  subject  of  England,  or 
one  might  be  Queen  of  England — eh,  Randolph  ? 

Randolph:  Your  Majesty  can  instruct  me. 

Mary:  A  subject  —  or  no,  that's  unlikely;  a 
forfeit  rather.  Or  Queen.  Is  it  not  so? 

Randolph:  How  could  I  say,  Madam? 

Mary:  Does  not  Elizabeth  say  it? 

Randolph:  Elizabeth? 

Mary:  Yes,  man.  Does  she  not  say  it? 

Randolph:  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  heard 
Her  Majesty  — 

Mary:  Come,  Randolph,  you  are  not  unin- 
formed. Does  she  not  say  it,  and  fear  it? 

Randolph:  You  insist  above  my  knowledge, 
Madam. 


MARY  STUART  47 

Mary:  Then  answer  this,  as  an  honest  man. 
If  I  leave  my  kingdom  here  to  its  dangers  for 
such  time  as  it  may  need  to  travel  into  England, 
will  the  Queen  welcome  me  —  receive  me  even  ? 

Randolph:  I  can  hardly  answer  that,  Madam, 
here. 

Mary:  Do  it  by  messenger,  Sir  Thomas,  and 
say  no.  Not  • —  "  the  Queen's  High  Majesty 
laments  that  these  present  dispositions  of  her 
realm  "  • —  and  so  forth  in  some  Cecilian  strain, 
but,  bluntly,  no. 

Randolph:  You  speak  hardly. 

Mary:  I  defend  myself.  That  is  all.  Though 
defence  is  nothing.  You  might  let  our  cousin 
know,  in  some  lighter  moment,  perhaps,  that 
Mary  Stuart  thought  thus  —  that  if  she  could 
have  found  peace  and  not  have  been  destroyed 
by  base  and  little  lovers,  she  would  have  met 
and  instructed  the  surest  wits  of  England,  and 
have  delighted  in  the  match;  but  that,  being 
tired,  she  said  it  was  no  matter.  Enough,  then, 
but  this.  Cunning  has  no  pleasure  when  the 
heart  is  breaking.  If  I  ask  my  cousin  to  ap- 
point a  day,  she  will  not  do  it. 

Randolph:  If  I  might  advance  the  matter  as 
I  can  — 


48  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  Oh,  be  simple  about  it,  Randolph. 
Forget  your  diplomacy  —  I'm  not  worth  it. 
Moreover,  fate  has  touched  me,  and  I  have  a 
discovering  vision.  Your  genius,  my  poor  am- 
bassador, fades  in  the  climate  of  my  grief. 
Policy  shines  when  it  is  pitted  against  interest. 
But  my  interest  knows  the  doom  that  is  com- 
ing. Let  us  talk  as  friends,  with  death  ap- 
pointed. I  shall  not  betray  you. 

Randolph:  Madam,  I  have  my  allegiance. 
But  all  that  devotion  may  offer  is  yours.  And 
you  speak  too  hopelessly. 

Mary:  No.  Hope  I  have  mastered  —  that, 
at  least.  I  shall  not  want  courage,  and  it  may 
be  years.  And  I  shall  make  a  good  end.  That  is 
all. 

Randolph:  If  some  affairs  could  but  be  com- 
posed, the  Queen,  I  am  sure,  has  good  will  to 
you  and  Scotland. 

Mary:  To  Scotland  —  where  is  Scotland, 
which  faction  is  to  be  called  Scotland  ?  And  for 
me,  I  tell  you,  no.  Her  hope  is  my  destruction ; 
you  know  it.  If  I  stand  before  Europe  in  hon- 
our, how  long  can  my  cousin  delay  naming  me 
to  her  succession? 


MARY  STUART  49 

Randolph:  It  is  her  daily  dread. 

Mary:  Dread? 

Randolph:  Anxiety. 

Mary:  Dread  will  do.  She  fears  a  Catholic 
invasion  of  her  throne.  That's  as  may  be,  but 
she  fears  it.  My  nomination  would  foster  it, 
she  says  to  herself,  daily,  in  dread.  My  dis- 
crediting would  be  fortunate.  She  must  be 
hungry  for  any  word  against  me  —  that  could 
be  used.  There  would  be  royal  thanks  —  if  no 
more  —  for  news  of  Mary  Stuart's  offending. 
Could  she  be  shown  as  a  wanton,  let  us  say;  or, 
better,  would  she  but  provoke  my  lord  Darn- 
ley  to  some  violence  —  what  possibilities  were 
in  that !  What  nets ! 

Randolph:  It  is  grievous  that  you  should 
think  so. 

Mary:  Think?  Are  there  not  letters?  Secrets 
that  miscarry?  Messages  that  are  overheard? 
England  has  her  eyes,  who  knows  at  what  key- 
hole, and  we  must  profit  by  example.  Even  I 
have  those  about  me  who  are  diligent.  (She 
unfolds  paper  on  the  table.)  "To  His  Grace,  my 
Lord  of  Leicester,  from  Sir  Thomas  Randolph, 
Ambassador  at  Holyrood  from  the  Court  of 


50  MARY  STUART 

England.  My  lord,  I  learn  that  the  quarrel 
between  Her  Majesty  and  the  King  grows.  He 
of  whom  I  told  Your  Lordship  has  many  marks 
of  her  favour,  which  the  King  has  been  heard 
to  say  do  much  discredit  him  to  be  so  slighted 
for  an  Italian  jay.  So  far  that  much  is  in- 
tended, as  I  think,  against  the  intruder,  even  to 
extremity,  which  indeed  may  also  glance  at 
Majesty  itself,  and  so  strike  as  it  were  to  the 
root.  Or  if  that  be  not  so  and  Master  David 
only  be  practised  against,  then  the  Queen's 
anger  must  be  such  as  will  not  easily  be  paid, 
and  all  that  is  hoped  for  may  be  between  her 
and  the  King.  I  am,  my  lord,  Your  Lord- 
ship's humble  servant,  Thomas  Randolph." 

Randolph:  Madam,  I  have  but  to  convey 
what  falls  out.  I  set  it  down,  merely.  I  desire 
nothing. 

Mary:  "All  that  is  hoped  for." 

Randolph:  By  some. 

Mary:  By  my  cousin.  But  we  needed  no  let- 
ters. It  shall  not  be  kept  against  you.  (She 
gives  him  the  letter.)  And  I  have  a  mind  that 
will  care  for  no  reckoning  —  you  need  not  fear. 
You  do  but  —  set  it  down.  But  I  wished  you  to 


MARY  STUART  5 1 

know.  I  shall  lose,  but  I  know  what  moves  in 
the  dark.  There  are  no  surprises,  be  sure  of 
that. 

Randolph:  Is  there  anything  that  Your 
Majesty  would  have  me  do? 

Mary:  Be  a  little  sorry  for  your  office,  that  is 
all.  And  remember  me  as  I  might  have  been. 
You  know. 

Randolph:  You  should  have  been  fortunate, 
Madam.  You  would  have  borne  it  greatly. 

Mary:  You  are  right  about  Darnley.  He 
sings  bawdy  songs  at  my  window. 

Randolph:  That  is  lamentable. 

Mary:  No,  it  is  part  of  the  story.  You  might 
have  heard  him  half  an  hour  since.  But  do  not 
believe  all  that  you  hear.  David  Riccio  is 
nothing.  I  protect  him,  as  I  would  my  spaniel. 
But  he  will  serve  England's  purpose  well 
enough.  Let  it  be.  You  play  your  recorder  still  ? 

Randolph:  Yes,  but  indifferently. 

Mary:  Well,  I  thought  when  I  heard  you. 
Here  is  a  precious  one,  of  very  mellow  tone. 
(She  takes  it  from  its  case.)  It  belonged  to  our 
French  poet,  Pierre  Ronsard.  Keep  it  for  my 
sake.  I  ask  nothing  in  return.  There  is  nothing 


52  MARY  STUART 

you  can  do.  Ronsard  was  a  chivalrous  poet.  I 
would  have  you  keep  it. 

Randolph:  It  shall  instruct  me,  Madam. 

(They  rise,  and  he  kneels  as  she  again  gives 
him  her  hand) 

Mary:  Adieu. 
Randolph:  Madam. 

(He  goes) 

(MARY  moves  to  an  open  prayer-book  and 

turns  the  leaves) 

Mary  (reading,  very  quietly,  to  herself) :  "And 
in  the  evening  they  will  return :  grin  like  a  dog, 
and  will  go  about  the  city.  .  .  .  Unto  thee,  O 
my  strength,  will  I  sing:  for  thou,  O  God,  art 
my  refuge,  and  my  merciful  God." 

(She  stands  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  rings 
the  bell  beside  her.  BEATON  comes) 

Mary:  Did  you  find  my  lord  Bothwell  ? 
Beaton:  He  waits  your  word. 
Mary:  Ask  him  to  come.  First  draw  the  cur- 
tains and  light  the  candle. 

(BEATON  does  so,  while  MARY  reads  again 
the  same  passage  aloud) 


MARY  STUART  53 

"And  in  the  evening  they  will  return:  grin 
like  a  dog,  and  will  go  about  the  city.  .  .  .  Unto 
thee,  O  my  strength,  will  I  sing:  for  thou,  O 
God,  art  my  refuge,  and  my  merciful  God." 

(BEATON  goes  and  MARY  closes  the  book. 
She  stands  at  the  desk,  her  back  to  the  door. 
BOTHWELL  appears) 

Bothwell:  Madam. 

Mary  (half  turning) :  My  lord. 

Bothwell:  You  sent  for  me. 

Mary:  You  were  not  seen  to  come? 

Bothwell:  No.  Not  that  I  care  for  all  their 
eyes. 

Mary:  But  you  must.  I  have  small  reason  to 
cherish  security,  I  know;  that  is  past.  But  this 
would  confuse  things  too  much.  They  will  de- 
stroy me,  but  I  will  not  help  them  too  gener- 
ously. So  this  must  not  be  known. 

Bothwell:  I  understand. 

Mary:  Will  you  help  me  ? 

Bothwell:  Madam,  I  have  no  interest  but  to 
please  myself.  To  please  you  is  that. 

Mary:  Darnley  threatens  Riccio. 

Bothwell:  Shall  I  trip  Darnley?    But  why 


54  MARY  STUART 

should  one  be  concerned  for  Riccio?  There 
should  be  better  ambitions. 

Mary:  They  think  he 's  my  lover.  Or  Darn- 
ley  occupies  his  mind  in  a  pretence  that  he 
thinks  it.  Let  him  think  it — it  is  no  matter. 

Bothwell:  Surely  not  Riccio? 

Mary:  No.  But  I  did  not  send  for  you  to 
question  me.  Riccio  has  served  me  well  enough 
in  his  kind.  I  remember  these  things.  He  is  in 
danger,  and  he  must  be  saved.  That  is  all. 

Bothwell:  What  can  I  do? 

Mary:  He  must  leave  Scotland,  secretly,  and 
at  once.  Can  you  contrive  that? 

Bothwell:  It  could  be  done.  There  is  a  Dane  in 
port  now.  I  will  give  word  to  the  captain.  I  have 
his  service.  Tell  Riccio  to  meet  me  at  midnight, 
by  Frobisher's  Croft.  I  will  have  a  fellow  to  take 
him  out  from  shore.  When  they  are  clear  they 
can  carry  a  light,  and  the  Dane  shall  take  him  up. 
He  can  make  his  own  way  from  Copenhagen  ? 

Mary:  Surely.  Riccio  shall  be  there  at  mid- 
night. And  my  thanks. 

(She  offers  her  hand) 
Bothwell  (taking  it) :  No  more? 


MARY  STUART  55 

Mary:  It  must  not  be.   No  —  not  yet. 

Bothzvell:  I  fear  for  your  safety. 

Mary:  Why  should  you  fear?  I  do  not. 

Bothzvell:  But  you  must.  Danger  moves 
everywhere. 

Mary:  I  am  on  terms  with  danger.  I  am  used 
to  it. 

Bothzvell:  But  for  those  who  love  you  — 

Mary:  Those  —  who  are  they? 

Bothzvell:  For  me  who  love  you. 

Mary:  Man,  do  you  love  me  so  well? 

Bothzvell:  You  know  it. 

Mary:  You  believe  it. 

Bothzvell:  Why  do  you  deny  yourself  always, 
thus?  Why  do  you  not  believe  my  devotion? 
What  gain  is  there  in  this  refusal  and  refusal? 
Come  away  with  me.  Your  throne  means 
nothing  to  you  as  the  time  is  —  your  authority 
is  drained  on  every  side  —  you  are  threatened 
daily.  The  lords  work  against  you  —  England 
waits  the  moment  that  seems  to  her  to  be  al- 
most here  —  the  certain  moment.  Leave  it  all. 
Come  with  me. 

Mary:  No,  it  cannot  be.  All  would  be  lost 
then  irrevocably. 


56  MARY  STUART 

Bothwell:  You  do  not  want  courage? 

Mary:  Perhaps. 

Bothwell:  Take  it  from  me. 

Mary:  It  would  be  none,  so.  But  I  do  not 
think  my  courage  is  at  fault.  Your  love  could 
not  better  me;  I  fear  that. 

Bothwell:  You  want  my  love,  burningly  you 
want  it. 

Mary:  I  know  —  yes.  But  for  an  enterprise 
like  that  love  must  be  durable.  Yours  would 
fail  —  it  is  not  a  fault  in  you,  but  it  would. 

Bothwell:  Even  so,  what  then  has  been  lost? 

Mary:  A  shadow  merely  —  a  hope,  a  little 
hope,  I  do  not  know  of  what  —  but  that  out 
of  some  fortunate  moment,  somehow  it  might 
come. 

Bothwell:  What? 

Mary:  The  love  that  should  save  me. 

Bothwell:  But  time  goes.  Danger  is  here 
now.  And  I  love  you,  now.  Your  love,  your 
shadow  —  where  is  that? 

Mary:  I  know.  But  in  my  heart  it  is  all  I 
have  left.  Nothing,  a  poor  nothing  —  but  all. 
If  I  go  with  you,  it  is  but  one  step  farther  into 
the  darkness,  the  last.  Even  the  shadow  would 


MARY  STUART  57 

be  lost.  I  am  too  wise  in  grief.  I  am  wiser  even 
than  my  blood.  That's  lamentable,  is  n't  it? 
But  I  have  come  to  that. 

Bothwell:  Woman,  why  do  you  waste  your- 
self among  crowns  and  pedlars?  Who  is  Eliza- 
beth—  who  Darnley?  What  is  Scotland,  a 
black  country,  barren,  that  it  should  consume 
this  beauty?  You  were  born  to  love,  to  mate 
strongly,  to  challenge  passion  —  this  passion, 
I  tell  you,  this.  They  come  to  you,  and  plead  as 
peevish  boys,  or  watch  round  corners  • —  winds 
that  cannot  stir  one  tress  of  that  hair.  You  are 
not  aware  of  them,  you  are  unmoved.  But  I  am 
not  as  these  • —  do  you  think  I  will  wait  and 
wait?  I  do  not  plead.  (Taking  her  in  his  arms.) 
You  are  in  my  arms  • —  you  are  no  queen,  you 
are  my  subject.  If  you  stay  they  will  destroy 
your  throne  • —  if  you  stay  you  will  destroy 
yourself.  You  have  fires.  Can  you  quench 
them?  Mary,  my  beloved,  I  am  stronger  than 
you.  Come,  I  bid  it. 

(MARY  stays  a  moment,  bound  in  his  arms. 
Then  she  slowly  releases  herself) 

Mary:  It  is  magnificent.  But  I  told  you. 
I  am  wiser  than  my  blood. 


58  MARY  STUART 

Bothwell  (again  moving  to  her):  Mary  — 
Mary!  You  know  it,  you  know. 

Mary:  Don't.  Think! 

Bothwell:  I  have  thought,  and  it  is  enough. 
You  may  desert  all,  but  not  this. 

Mary:  Listen.  You  woo  well  —  boldly,  at 
least.  Better  than  Darnley  ever  did,  and  Riccio 
has  no  more  than  a  little  elegance.  And  he 
whines.  So  did  Darnley.  But  you  have  cour- 
age. You  are  aflame,  and  I  kindle  —  yes,  I  tell 
you  so  much.  What  then?  Should  we  leave 
Scotland?  No.  Queens  are  limed.  And  here, 
what  is  there  for  us  but  stealthy  moments,  fugi- 
tive? I  should  burn  to  them,  but  they  would 
but  add  more  smother  to  my  life.  I  do  not 
know  what  may  come  —  I  love  you,  yes,  if  you 
will  —  but  no  hope  is  in  it,  none.  For  I  must 
tell  you.  I  am  of  those  who  must  be  loved  al- 
ways, for  all  things,  for  there  to  be  any  peace  in 
love.  If  you,  or  any  man,  could  fathom  that  — 
—  ah,  then !  And  of  such  I  could  be  the  queen  of 
one,  or  many.  That  is  not  wanton  —  that  is  a 
wisdom  that  life  tells  to  just  one  here  and  there. 
I  have  it  in  my  brain,  but  it  will  not  be  used. 
The  wisdom  will  fade  away  in  my  brain,  wither 


MARY  STUART  59 

to  a  cold  little  philosophy,  and  I  shall  die,  and  it 
will  have  been  betrayed,  because  none  came.  It 
is  my  fortune.  You  love  me  now,  you  love  my 
beauty.  It  needs  love,  it  cherishes  your  love,  it 
sings  back  to  your  hot  words.  But  my  beauty 
is  not  all.  It  will  pass,  and  I  should  be  unsatis- 
fied. For  you  could  not  love  me  always,  for  all 
things.  There  is  nothing  between  us  but  the 
minute.  You  could  give  me  that,  but  you  have 
nothing  else  to  give. 

Both-well:  And  then  ?  Shall  the  minute  be  de- 
nied? 

Mary:  That's  good.  You  make  no  pretence, 
even.  But  remember,  there  is  no  hope  in  it, 
there  can  be  none.  Even  were  Darnley  less 
husband  than  he  is,  and  I  free  to  take  you  to  the 
throne,Tthere  would  still  be  but  the  minute  be- 
tween us.  You  are  not  the  man.  He  will  not 
come. 

Both-well:  I  am  no  schemer  in  my  love. 
Policy 's  a  game  • —  there  I  'm  all  wits.  But  love 
comes,  and  is  now.  You  are  beautiful,  Mary. 
You  betray  no  one.  What  remorse  can  there  be  ? 

Mary:  Remorse?  No,  love  is  remorseless. 
But  frustration,  always,  always. 


60  MARY  STUART 

Eothwell:  Not  of  our  minute  —  not  of  that, 
I  say. 
Mary:  No,  then,  not  of  that. 

(BOTHWELL  again  takes  her  in  his  arms, 
she  giving  herself  passionately.  After  a  mo- 
ment, they  part,  as  MARY  BEATON'S  voice  is 
heard) 

Beaton  (calling  from  without):  Madam  — 
Madam. 

Mary:  Yes,  what  is  it? 

Beaton:  Madam. 

Mary:  Yes,  yes  —  come  in. 

Beaton  (entering):  Madam,  the  King  is 
crossing  the  yard  —  he  may  be  coming  here. 

Mary  (to  BOTHWELL)  :  You  must  go. 

Eothwell:  Why  should  we  slink  about  for  any 
king? 

Mary:  No  —  you  must.  There  are  confu- 
sions enough.  (She  looks  out  from  the  window.} 
Yes,  he  is  coming.  Go  through  the  close  — 
quickly.  At  midnight,  remember. 

(BOTHWELL  kisses  her  hand  and  goes) 

Beaton:  You  play  very  dangerously,  Madam. 
Mary:  Beaton,  love  should  be  lucky  for  you. 


MARY  STUART  6 1 

I  think  it  will.  But  for  me  .  .  .  He  took  me 
in  his  arms  —  a  moment's  fury  • —  fire  to  slake 
fire,  and  that  is  all.  That  is  my  most  of  love. 
Why  should  I  not  be  dangerous  ? 

Beaton:  Do  you  love  my  lord  Bothwell? 

Mary:  A  little  of  me  —  a  moment.  There 
is  so  much  else  to  deny  myself,  after  all.  But 
he  means  so  little  more  than  the  others.  Still,  a 
little  —  it  is  something. 

(DARNLEY  conies  in) 

Darnley:  Where  has  he  gone? 

Mary:  Who? 

Darnley:  Who?  The  Italian. 

Mary:  He  is  in  his  room,  I  think. 

Darnley:  I  saw  him  go  down  the  far  stair  as 
I  came  in  from  the  yard. 

Mary:  You  are  mistaken,  I  think.  Beaton, 
will  you  see? 

.(BEATON  goes  out) 

Darnley:  You  know  his  movements  well. 
But  some  one  went  down. 

Mary:  You  are  curious. 

Darnley:  Yes,  Madam.  I  must  watch  these 
fellows. 


62  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  Fellows? 

Darnley:  Who  knows  —  one,  and  another, 
perhaps. 

(BEATON  returns) 

Beaton:  Riccio  is  in  his  room,  Madam. 
(BEATON  goes) 

Darnley:  Then,  who  was  it? 

Mary:  Have  you  any  purpose  in  coming? 

Darnley:  Who  was  it? 

Mary:  A  shadow,  perhaps. 

Darnley:  By  God ! 

Mary:  The  King,  then. 

Darnley:  The  King — what  king?  Who  was  it? 

Mary:  You  are  tiresome. 

Darnley:  Very  well,  then  —  look  to  it  that 
Riccio's  matter  is  not  all. 

Mary:  Riccio's  matter? 

Darnley:  The  settlement  with  him. 

Mary:  Why  did  you  come?  It  was  not  to  see 
a  shadow,  or  a  king,  or  a  fellow,  or  what  you 
will? 

Darnley:  I  came  as  a  friend  to  warn  you. 
About  treason.  Do  not  shelter  it.  Lest  harm 
coming  to  it  should  soil  you,  too. 


MARY  STUART  63 

Mary:  Treason,  sir?  You  speak  to  the  Queen. 

Darnley:  To  be  sure,  yes.  I  forgot.  I  thought 
it  was  to  one  who  played  with  the  Queen's 
paramour.  I  thought  I  would  warn  her.  I 
grow  forgetful  • —  I  am  so  busy.  A  little  scheme 
I  have  in  hand,  about  the  Queen's  honour. 
That's  you.  Yes.  In  two  days,  or  three,  or  be- 
fore, perhaps.  Pardon  me,  Madam,  I  should 
not  intrude  in  the  Queen's  chamber  —  one 
never  knows  who  may  be  in  it.  That  shadow, 
now;  I  wonder.  I  must  investigate' —  it  might 
mean  another  scheme.  Once  you  begin  ...  I 
have  a  better  tune  for  the  song  now  • —  but  an- 
other time,  another  time.  But  I  would  not 
shelter  it. 

(He  goes.  MARY  takes  Elizabeth's  picture, 
looks  at  it  in  the  candle-light,  and  replaces 
it  in  the  cabinet,  then  rings  the  bell.  BEATON 
comes  in) 

Mary:  We  will  have  supper  here  to-night. 
Tell  them,  will  you?  And  ask  Riccio  to  come. 
Come  in  when  you  have  told  them  below,  and 
prepare  the  table. 

Beaton:  Yes,  Madam. 


64  MARY  STUART 

(She  goes.  MARY  takes  a  purse  from  the 
cabinet,  sits,  writing  a  letter,  and  a  moment 
later  RICCIO  comes  in) 

Riccio:  Madam,  the  King  was  here  again? 

Mary:  It's  ill-named  for  him,  but  he  was. 

Riccio:  I  saw  him  on  the  green  from  my  win- 
dow. He  was  with  my  Lord  Ruthven  and  two 
or  three  others,  talking.  I  am  afraid.  What 
shall  I  do? 

Mary:  All  is  arranged.  You  are  to  meet  the 
Lord  Bothwell  by  Frobisher's  Croft  at  mid- 
night. A  boat  will  be  ready,  and  you  will  wait 
out  at  sea  till  a  Danish  ship  takes  you  up. 
From  Copenhagen  you  must  make  your  own 
way  to  France.  Here  is  money,  and  a  letter  to 
be  delivered  to  Monsieur  Carme  in  Paris.  He 
will  help  you  if  you  need  it. 

Riccio  (taking  the  purse  and  letter}:  Thank 
you,  Madam.  If  I  could  but  serve  you  better ! 
But  fate  is  against  me. 

Mary:  Yes,  my  poor  Riccio,  fate  is  against  you. 

Riccio:  I  fear  for  you  in  this  place.  There's 
wickedness  in  it.  If  I  were  but  happier  in  my 
fate  —  to  shield  you ! 


MARY  STUART  65 

Mary:  You  must  not  let  that  trouble  you. 
You  have  done  what  you  could.  We  are  but 
ourselves.  Keep  this. 

(She  gives  him  a  brooch  from  her  sleeve.  He 
takes  it  and  kisses  her  hand.  BEATON  comes 
in) 

And  now  we  can  talk  as  friends,  with  no  mis- 
giving.   (She  goes  to  the  door  and  turns  the  key.) 
Beaton,  David  leaves  us  to-night.    A  friendly 
sail  to  Denmark  has  relieved  us  of  our  anxieties. 
(BEATON  -puts  wine,  cups,  and  fruit  on  the 
table.    They  seat  themselves.    They  eat  and 
MARY  pours  out  the  wine) 
Riccio:  If  you  were  but  coming  to  France, 
Madam.  In  a  month  how  the  glades  will  shine ! 
Mary:  I  have  them  in  my  mind.    Though 
there  are  times  when  one  lives  too  fiercely  for 
the  mind's  landscapes  to  be  clear.   They  come 
in  tranquillity.    Let  us  drink  to  France,  the 
south,  where  the  sun  is. 

(They  drink) 

Riccio:  And  to  the  queen  whose  beauty  is 
like  Provence.  To  Mary  Stuart. 

(He  and  MARY  BEATON  drink) 


66  MARY  STUART 

Mary:  Would  I  were  a  better  toast ! 

Riccio  (to  MARY  BEATON):  You  should  see 
the  south,  mistress.  I  hear  talk  of  a  love- 
match  —  the  Lord  Ogilvy  of  Boyne,  it  is  said. 
It  would  make  a  sweet  honeymoon. 

Beaton:  I  am  sure  you  have  a  shrewd  judg- 
ment, Master  Riccio. 

Mary:  Now,  David,  we  will  have  none  of  these 
encouragements.  Must  I  lose  all  my  friends  ? 

Riccio:  There's  an  old  fellow  in  Toulouse 
there  who  cobbles  and  makes  flutes.  There 
were  never  flutes  like  them.  To  hear  one  is  to 
have  the  words  come  pit,  pat,  and  there's  a 
song  as  soon  as  you  will.  Everything  there 
grows  like  that.  Here  it  is  as  though  one  were 
under  stones,  damp,  pressed  down,  all  gloom. 
But  there  —  ah,  but,  Madam,  you  know. 

Beaton:  You  are  glad  to  go? 

Riccio:  It  all  comes  back  —  how  can  one 
help  it?  Though  it  is  grief  to  go  from  so  sweet  a 
service.  Even  the  wine  is  brighter  there  —  my 
papers,  Madam  —  shall  I  deliver  them  to  you? 

Mary:  Yes  —  before  you  go.  Will  you  re- 
member Mary  Stuart  when  you  hear  the  cob- 
bler's flute? 


MARY  STUART  67 

Riccio:  I  shall  remember  her  always. 

Mary:  Safely  at  least,  I  hope,  David. 

Riccio:  But  I  have  no  choice  in  going, 
Madam? 

Mary:  None.  Life  will  be  none  the  more  civil 
for  your  loss,  I  will  say  that.  Now  sing  to  me 
for  the  last  time,  David. 

Riccio  (singing) : 

Green  shoots  we  break  the  morning  earth 
And  flourish  in  the  morning's  breath: 

We  leave  the  agony  of  birth 

And  soon  are  all  midway  to  death. 

While  yet  the  summer  of  her  year 
Brings  life  her  marvels,  she  can  see 

Far  off  the  rising  dust,  and  hear 
The  footfall  of  her  enemy. 

(As  he  is  ending,  the  handle  of  the  door  is 
turned,  and  then  there  is  a  loud  knock) 

Mary:  What's  that? 

(The  knocking  is  repeated.    RICCIO  and 
MARY  BEATON  rise) 

(To  BEATON)  :  See  what  it  is. 


68  MARY  STUART 

(BEATON  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.  Out- 
side is  a  low  murmur  of  voices.  DARNLEY 
comes  in) 

What  does  this  mean? 

Darnley:  There  are  envoys  here  to  speak  with 
the  secretary  of  the  Queen. 

Mary:  They  send  a  strange  herald.  Do  kings 
turn  grooms  ? 

Darnley:  I  was  coming  — 

Mary:  But  we  sent  word  below  that  we  had 
retired. 

Darnley:  And  so  the  door  was  locked.  I 
know.  But  a  husband  may  be  capricious.  I 
found  them,  asking  for  the  secretary  of  the 
Queen.  They  are  waiting. 

Mary:  Let  them  come  in. 

Darnley:  It  is  the  secretary. 

Riccio:  Who  are  they,  my  lord  ? 

Darnley:  Who  are  they?  Shall  I  go  and  ask 
them  ? 

Riccio:  Does  Your  Grace  not  know  them? 

Darnley:  It  is  dark  out  there. 

Riccio:  Shall  I  go,  Madam? 

Mary  (to  DARNLEY)  :  You  swear  you  know 
nothing  of  this  ? 


MARY  STUART  69 

Darnley:  I?  Swear?  Oh,  yes,  I  swear. 

Mary  (softly) :  No,  Riccio,  I  will  go.  (She 
moves,  across  to  the  door.  Then,  loudly  — )  Go, 
Riccio.  See  what  they  want.  Your  cloak  —  it's 
cold  beyond. 

(She  takes  up  RICCIO'S  cloak,  and  throws  it 
round  her.  DARNLEY,  watching  her  almost 
in  a  dreadful  hope,  creeps  away  from  the 
door.  She  is  about  to  move  out  when  MARY 
BEATON  stops  her) 

Beaton:  Madam,  this  is  wildness.  Either  it 
is  nothing,  or  you  take  on  a  danger  that  you 
must  not.  (To  DARNLEY)  Why  may  they  not 
come  in  here? 

Darnley  (indifferently) :  I  know  nothing,  I  tell 
you.  If  the  Queen  wills. 

Mary:  Very  well.  Go,  Riccio. 

Riccio:  Is  it  safe? 

Beaton:  They  would  not  dare,  at  the  Queen's 
door. 

Mary:  Go.  There  can  be  nothing  to  fear. 
And  we  do  not  govern  fate. 

(Riccio  goes  out.  DARNLEY  moves  across 
to  the  door.  He  locks  it  and  takes  the  key) 


yo  MARY  STUART 

Darnley:  The  Queen  has  retired.  Let  us  talk. 
Mary:  Why  do  you  lock  the  door? 
Darnley:  I  found  it  so!  —  I  thought  it  was 
the  Queen's  will. 

(There  is  a  loud  scream  outside ',  and  running 
steps  towards  the  door,  which  is  beaten  vio- 
lently as  RICCIO  tries  to  enter.  Then  a 
struggle  and  scream  upon  scream.  Then 
silence,  and  footsteps  hurrying  away) 
(MARY  and  BEATON  have  moved  to  the  door. 
MARY  has  taken  the  key  from  DARNLEY, 
but  everything  has  happened  in  a  moment. 
MARY  moves  to  open  the  door,  but  holds 
back) 

Mary  (to  DARNLEY)  :  Open  it! 
Darnley:  I  should  have  questioned  them  more 
closely. 
Mary:  Open. 

(DARNLEY  unlocks  and  opens  the  door  upon 
RICCIO'S  body) 

Mary:  For  shame!    A  poor  simpleton  like 
that! 
Darnley:  I  was   in    the  Queen's  chamber. 


MARY  STUART  7 1 

And  no  one  knows.  No  one  in  Europe  would 
believe  it  of  the  King  of  Scotland.  But  I  was 
careless.  I  should  have  questioned  them  more 
closely. 

(He  steps  out  over  RICCIO'S  body,  and  goes) 

Mary  (after  a  pause ',  looking  down  at  RICCIO)  : 
A  fantastic  nothing.  Poor  fellow.  But  the 
reckoning  shall  be  as  though  for  a  great  lover. 
Go,  Beaton.  Bid  them  come  up.  Have  the 
watch  summoned.  Let  him  be  taken  away. 
This  is  his  poor  little  tragedy.  Ours  remains. 
Go. 

(BEATON  goes  out.  MARY  closes  the  door. 
She  goes  to  the  window,  and  draws  back  the 
curtain,  filling  the  room  with  bright  moon- 
light. She  looks  out.  Beyond  the  door  men 
are  heard  moving  the  body  of  RICCIO. 
Then  BEATON  returns) 

Beaton:  Madam. 

Mary:  Yes,  Beaton. 

Beaton:  My  Lord  Bothwell  is  below.  He 
wants  to  speak  to  you.  He  beckoned  me  from 
the  shadow.  He  is  at  the  yard  corner. 

Mary:  Bothwell? 


72  MARY  STUART 

Beaton:  Yes,  madam. 

Mary:  Bothwell  is  nothing.  As  Riccio  was 
nothing.  Darnley .  . .  Darnley  is  the  King, 
Beaton.  A  king  may  be  nothing. 

Beaton:  Shall  I  tell  my  Lord  Bothwell  to 
come? 

Mary:  Have  they  taken  him  away? 

Beaton:  David  Riccio?  Yes,  Madam. 

Mary:  I  cannot  see  Bothwell  to-night.  To- 
morrow, perhaps. 

Beaton:  He  is  very  persistent,  Madam. 

Mary:  Not  to-night,  Beaton. 

(BEATON  goes.  MARY  looks  out  into  the 
night  again,"  silent  for  a  jew  moments •,  and 
then  sings  softly) 

Though  brighter  wit  I  had  than  these, 
Their  cunning  brought  me  down, 

But  Mary's  love-story  shall  please 
Better  than  their  renown. 

Not  Riccio  nor  Darnley  knew 

Nor  Bothwell  how  to  find 
This  Mary's  best  magnificence 

Of  the  great  lover's  mind. 


MARY  STUART  73 

(The  candle  gutters  out) 
(She  throws  the  window  open  to  the  balcony) 
(Voices  as  of  a  dream  are  heard  beyond. 
MARY  stands  listening) 

First  Voice:  It's  a  damned  silly  song.  What's 
it  all  about .  . . 

Second  Voice:  Look  at  this  queen.  She  tells 
you,  does  n't  she,  does  n't  she? 

First  Voice:  What  does  a  dead  queen  know 
about  me?  You  talk  nonsense.  The  moon  has 
your  wits;  you're  like  that  crazy  singer  out 
there.  Mary  Stuart  can  tell  me  nothing,  I  say. 

(MARY  goes  along  the  balcony,  out  of  sight) 

My  God!  What's  that? 

The  Voice  of  Mary:  Boy,  I  can  tell  you  every- 
thing. 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


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